


You're The One I Want

by Mono



Category: South Park
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, High School, Love Triangles, M/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-19 06:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2378348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mono/pseuds/Mono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years into high school, Kyle shamefully conceals the fact he's in love with Stan, and spends most of his time hanging out with Cartman. But somewhere along the line, he's grown fond of his childhood rival. When did life become so complicated?<br/>(Unofficial sequel to "The Moon and the Stars".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Have I Ever

**Author's Note:**

> This is a follow-up to my oneshot, "The Moon and the Stars", which was written in Cartman's perspective. I thought it would be interesting to do a sequel told from Kyle's point of view.

Playing drinking games in Cartman’s basement seemed like a really good fucking idea two hours ago. It’s not until Cartman suggests Never Have I Ever, possibly the lamest, dorkiest teenage game in the world, that Kyle realises just how wasted they both are.

“Dude, come on, we have school tomorrow,” he slurs. The room is spinning slightly, floor strewn with playing cards and empty beer cans, and the dim overhanging light seems too bright. As soon as he says this out loud, he wonders why on earth he agreed to drink in the middle of the school week in the first place. Then he remembers Stan, on the football field… and Wendy… 

Kyle downs the rest of his Pabst Blue Ribbon, shuddering at the cheap, stale taste. He crushes the can in his fist and tosses it aimlessly into a corner of the basement. “I mean, what are we? Thirteen-year-old girls at a slumber party? Even Truth or Dare holds more calibre than this. This is basically just Truth without the Dare.”

“Truth or Dare is boring,” Cartman dismisses him, taking another swig of Piña Colada (which he dubbed a girls’ drink only thirty minutes prior), before offering the bottle to Kyle, who rolls his eyes.

“Oh, and Never Have I Ever doesn’t sound boring at all,” Kyle snorts, accepting the bottle from Cartman and knocking it back. 

“Don’t be such a Jew.”

“Don’t belittle my people, fatass.”

He looks up, catches Cartman’s eye, and they both grin at each other. It’s not so much an insult these days, more an old joke that they’ve both grown tired of. And Kyle feels a lot more accommodating in this cosy state of drunkenness.

“Whatever, I’m tired of all these sissy drinks,” Cartman yawns, stretching behind the couch to gain access to his mom’s alcohol stash. “Want some Jameson?” 

“Dude! Seriously, how fucked up are you trying to get exactly?”

“Hey Jew, I’m going all out here. I’m barely even buzzed. If you can’t keep up, then get the fudge out.”

Kyle grumbles, then eventually sighs, unable to back down from a challenge. “Fine. Fix me one too.”

Cartman grins. “You’re on, Jew.”

Three rounds later, Kyle can barely keep his eyes open, let alone operate his mouth.

“’Kay… okay…” he mumbles. “Okay… never have I ever… killed anybody’s parents to get revenge.” He snickers at his own wit.

“Oi, Kyle, that’s cheating. And technically, I didn’t kill them. They were shot for trespassing.”

“Whatever... your fault.” Kyle’s head nods; his eyelids droop. He doesn’t register the drool threatening to leak out the corner of his slack lips. “Drink up, fatass.”

“You are such a Jew,” Cartman moans, but knocks back his drink anyway. Kyle envies the ease at which he does so. Cartman isn’t just wide; at nearly six feet tall, he is massive, filling the room with his presence, and the alcohol, honest to God, seems to have barely affected him at all, in comparison to the sluggish wreck that has become Kyle. Kyle is shorter, skinnier, and was susceptible to the very first beer he cracked open this evening. He shouldn’t have lasted anywhere near this long, and expects to expel the alcohol at any given time, without his body’s permission.

“Fine, payback time, bitch. Never have I ever… given a guy a handjob.”

“Bullcrap, C – hic! – Cartman. Ben Affleck!”

“That wasn’t me! That was Jennifer Lopez!”

“Dude… whatever. Anyway… joke’s on you. I’ve never…” Kyle trails off, feeling his face grow hot. His face is already burning from the alcohol, but Kyle flushes so deep, so fast, he feels faint. He can’t believe he’s discussing such a personal thing with Cartman, but then again, Cartman (for some reason) is the only one out of their old friendship group who knows that he’s gay. In fact, that makes him the only person who knows at all, as Kyle isn’t out at home or at school. Perhaps because of this, in addition to the fact he lives in a small hick mountain town, Kyle hasn’t yet had a chance to get his gay on.

“Aw, dude, weak.” Cartman then gets a mischievous glint in his eye. “Blowjobs?”

“No…” Kyle mumbles. If he were sober right now, he’d be yelling at Cartman to shut the fuck up. As it is, he just feels tired, melancholy, and lets his mouth operate on autopilot. “Never had any experience, actually.”

“That’s just too tragic,” Cartman smirks, leaning back against the foot of the couch. 

“Sh… shut up, Cartman. Just how much experience have YOU had?”

“More than you, Jew!”

“Yeah, right. I’ll – hic! – I’ll believe that when hell freezes over.”

“Better believe it, asshole. Your turn.”

“Ugh… never have I ever… Cartman, this game is so lame…”

“You forfeiting, Jewboy?”

“No… goddammit… never have I ever…” 

Kyle’s vision is fuzzy, out of focus. Nothing comes to mind. He could drop off to sleep right here and now. Whenever this happens, his thoughts automatically return to Stan. Of course. His name is permanently etched into Kyle’s brain. In Kyle’s current state, it’s hard to picture Stan clearly in his head. But he sees what he wants to see, every time he closes his eyes: Stan, smiling at him with warm, sweet eyes, bringing Kyle to his muscular chest and wrapping him in his strong arms. Kyle buries his face in Stan’s neck and loses himself in that sweet, musky scent…

Kyle blinks in alarm when he realises his eyes are stinging with tears. Jesus Christ, he never thought himself to be an emotional drunk. He’s just having a bad day, that’s all.

“Kyle, if you don’t come up with something within the next ten seconds –”

“I’ve never told someone I loved them,” Kyle mumbles, almost to himself. In fact, it is to himself, and he regrets it as soon as he realises he’s said the words out loud, for Cartman to laugh at.  
Needless to say, he’s surprised when a few seconds of a silence later he hears the clink of glass and turns his head to see Cartman take a steady gulp of whiskey. He wipes his lips on his jacket sleeve and nods at Kyle defiantly, attempting to look nonchalant.

“What, Jew? It’s a perfectly normal thing for a human to do. Well played. My turn now.”

“No, no, wait! You told someone you loved them?”

“Wow, Kyle, call up the Denver Post if it fascinates you so much. My go. Never have I ever –” 

“Who was it?”

“NEVER HAVE I EVER,” Cartman talks over him loudly, “been circumcised, because I’m not a dumb Jew rat like you. So there.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, asshole.”

“Oh yeah? You’d love getting fucked in the asshole, queermo.”

“Gnnnnrrrrhhh!” Kyle growls in frustration, the weak gay slur stinging him more than it should. It’s Cartman, after all. He signed up for this a long time ago by stupidly confiding in him. Though surprisingly, Cartman has never ripped on him for it, which he wasn’t expecting. Everything else under the sun, mostly the three ‘J’s, but never for being gay. Until now. Oh God, maybe Kyle’s so obviously gay that picking on him for it would be no fun at all… Oh fuck, Kyle would die if he found out everyone could tell and that while he’d been in the closet they’d been tapping their toes impatiently, waiting for him to confess. It’s not like he’s particularly sassy or anything…  
He’s so drunk he’s forgotten in a haze of anger what they were talking about. 

“Jew?”

Blearily, Kyle looks up at Cartman and realises he’s slumped over a cushion on the floor. He has no memory of lying down. Cartman’s scooted closer and is looking intently down at him. Was probably checking to see if he’s passed out so that he could do things to him in his sleep, like he used to with Butters. Fucking fatass.

“What?” Kyle mumbles incoherently.

“You sleeping here?” Cartman asks. Kyle takes a moment to consider, remembering they have school tomorrow, and that his mother’s probably freaking out because he never made it home for dinner, but Cartman’s pulling the throw from the couch over him, and he’s suddenly too warm and sleepy to move.

“Mmm,” he responds, snuggling his head into the cushion.

“Wow, you’ve Jewed me out of my booze, and now you’ve Jewed me out of my blanket,” Cartman complains, even though it was his mom's booze, and it was him who put the blanket over Kyle.

Kyle can’t muster up the strength to respond and zones out almost immediately, only vaguely registering Cartman climbing onto the couch behind him and murmuring, “Night, Jew.”  
Weird dreams stutter in and out of Kyle’s brain. He is at some point shocked awake by turning over in his sleep and nudging his nose right up against Cartman’s hand dangling off the couch, but he falls asleep again in an instant.

Unfortunately, he slips into a dream that recreates that afternoon in the football field. The incident that made him want to drink himself sick in the first place. He’s standing on the path where he was when he saw it happen that afternoon, yet he feels floaty, surreal, like he’s also watching himself from outside his own body.

First, he sees Stan. 

Stan is even more handsome, even more wonderful – his presence accentuated in Kyle’s dream state. Not that Kyle doesn’t see him that way anyway, even when he’s not dreaming. He seems to watch him in slow motion – the creases in Stan’s shirt moving as he runs, taut in places against his muscular form, drops of perspiration beading his forehead. He catches the ball and sprints, his boots cutting through the mud with ease, before throwing the ball as hard as he can to the other side of the field. He pants hard, watching his team mates scramble for the ball, before setting off again, yelling encouragement. He’s radiant. He’s brilliant. Kyle wants to run his tongue over the pulse in Stan’s throat, feel all of Stan’s muscular body pressed flush against his own. He swallows hard. It’s only recently he’s started having these thoughts. Stan’s always been beautiful to him, but now Kyle feels more than his heart stutter when he looks at Stan. He wants him. Wants him so bad…

Stan looks up as he jogs lightly, looks in Kyle’s direction. Kyle feels his heart lift, until he realises Stan’s eyes are staring straight through him. Kyle turns, at the same time feeling as he’s watching himself turn, like he’s watching a movie in which he already knows what happens.

He sees Wendy on the bleachers, adjusting her reading glasses, textbook open across her lap. She’s not the only girl there, of course not. There are always girls and guys alike scattered across the seats to watch football practice. But why is SHE there? She dumped Stan in the first year of middle school, didn’t she? They’ve not been together since. Of course, Stan’s still been wistful about her, especially as in high school she blossomed into an even smarter, more beautiful person.

But he looks up at her now, in awe, and she looks up too, catching his eye. She removes her glasses, and something passes between their gaze that Kyle can’t decipher, that Kyle isn’t part of. Something Kyle was never part of, and never will be part of.

Really? Was it just a simple look between a boy and a girl that made Kyle so miserable he wanted to drink until he passed out?

The rest of the dream passes by in a blur. Stan running up to Wendy after practice, bumping Kyle’s shoulder in the process and not even registering it, as if Kyle isn’t even there. Kyle can’t remember if this is just his brain dramatizing the scene or if that actually happened. Stan is talking to Wendy, as casually as he can muster, but Kyle knowing he’s just trying to hold in his nervous excitement, because wow, the girl he’s liked since they were eight years old has actually come to watch him play. Wendy is trying to hide a small smile, absent-mindedly fiddling with a lock of hair.

They walk off together towards the school parking lot, talking animatedly, Stan’s face still streaked with dirt, but not so much that Kyle can’t observe the creeping flush of delight on his cheeks. Stan has completely forgotten he’s supposed to be meeting up with Kyle after practice, even though it’s been weeks since they last hung out together. Kyle waits a few minutes, staring in their direction, but it doesn’t look like Stan’s coming back. He doesn’t even send Kyle a quick text to say something came up.

Kyle thought things had been changing between them recently. That Stan was finally over Wendy. After all, he was the tall, handsome quarterback hero. He could have anyone he wanted, and usually did. But for some reason Kyle held on to the hope that one day Stan could feel the same way. He could pretend, when he and Stan did hang out together, having fun like in the old days, that one day it would be something more than playing video games together whilst suppressing the urge to kiss him, kiss him hard.  
But the way Stan’s face lit up when he saw Wendy reinforced tenfold that Kyle was only kidding himself.

***

Kyle sits up, startled awake by the sound of birds chirping outside. Daylight streams in through the curtainless basement window near the ceiling. What time is it? Kyle blearily scrambles for his cell phone, trying to ignore his pounding head. Ugggh, he definitely shouldn’t have had that much to drink last night. It’s a miracle he hasn’t spit it all back up.

He flips his cell phone open (only 20% battery life left, great) and the time is 8:11am. The bus will be coming to pick them up in ten minutes. This panicky thought is punctuated by a loud, obnoxious snore coming from the couch, and Kyle narrows his eyes.

“Wake up, fatass!” he snarls, whacking Cartman upside the head with more force than he intended. Though it WAS his fault that Kyle got so drunk last night.

“Urrnngh, what the fuck do you want?” Cartman moans, throwing an arm over his face to shield himself from the light.

“It’s already ten past eight, you idiot! The bus will be coming any minute. Oh shit, I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes, gross. And I don’t have my books with me, and oh shit, I never texted my mom last night –”

“Dude, whatever, we’ll just skip.”

“We will do no such thing. Get your ass up and move. Can I borrow some deodorant?”

“Fucking hell, you’re annoying,” Cartman growls, but to Kyle’s surprise he sits up, and offers a hand to Kyle to help him up off the floor. “I’m amazed you have so much energy after last night, Jew.” He grins toothily, as Kyle moans in embarrassment.

“I don’t remember most of it,” he admits. “And I’ve got a really bad fucking headache.”

“Stop whining, you can have some painkillers, Jesus Christ. And because I’m so generous, you can borrow a toothbrush. Because you stink.”

“Shut the fuck up. So do you. Now quit arguing with me, we’ll miss the bus!”

Exactly seven minutes later, Kyle and Cartman sprint to the bus stop, Cartman panting the loudest and trailing behind as Kyle zips forward. “Ugh, wait for me, asshole!” His rapid growth spurt when they were 15 helped shed some of his baby fat, but Cartman still by no means does exercise willingly, and he collapses on the frosty ground as soon as they get to the bus stop, wheezing unintelligible bursts of, “…kill you… Kyle…”

The bus is late, and whilst Cartman lays on the ground panting and whinging like a little baby, Kyle checks his cell phone for messages. There are five from his mother, and two missed calls. Shit. All of them asking where he is. Thankfully she’s not left any frantic voicemails or called the cops. Kyle spends a lot of time with Cartman in his basement these days, so she probably figured he was there, or called Liane to make sure. She seems to trust him more now he's in high school, which is a relief. When he’s not in Cartman’s basement (which sounds like an awful euphemism for something) Kyle usually hangs out at the arcade or at some diner with high school friends, mainly Cartman, Butters, Jason and others, as Kyle’s not cool enough to hang out with Stan or some of their other old friends these days. High school sucks. They all used to be so close. He still hangs out with Stan once in a while, like they were supposed to yesterday. But they’ve both changed. Kenny’s not changed much, but he hangs out with all the stoner kids, and they don’t see much of each other either.

Kyle sends a quick reply to his mother, saying he was at Cartman’s all night and fell asleep. In an alternate reality, that’d be his alibi, but Kyle’s social life really is tragic enough for such an alibi to be the truth. All he leaves out is the detail about them drinking until the early hours.  
Kyle’s heart races when he sees a text from Stan, sent at 11pm last night. Kyle must have already been wasted by that point and wouldn’t have noticed. He immediately recovers and tells himself it’ll just be an apology or even just an excuse for blowing him off last night. He’ll tell him it’s cool, no worries man. We can hang out some other time.

_Hey dude!_  
 _So sorry about today – will make it up to you. Wendy came to watch me play. I know, right? We talked for like four hours non-stop after practice. This is my chance, I know it! Anyway ttyl dude._

Wow. Kyle never expected him to be so… unapologetic. He said sorry, sure, but justified himself blowing Kyle off because, well, it was WENDY. Who wouldn’t blow their friend off for a girl, right? He didn’t even need an excuse because that was good enough to satisfy Kyle.  
Nevertheless Kyle forces a smile, even though Stan can’t see him, and types back:

_Cool! That’s great! No problem, don’t worry about me._

“The hippie blow you off again?”

Kyle jumps. Whilst he was focusing on texting, Cartman came up right behind him and rested his chin on Kyle’s shoulder.

“What’s it to you?” Kyle grumbles, wishing Cartman wasn’t so observant sometimes. He has no idea why he ever told Cartman he liked Stan. It kind of happened as a way of telling Cartman he was gay. That was probably a mistake too. 

Kyle remembers that summer night from three years ago, him and Cartman huddled around the campfire, their friends sleeping in the tent next to them. It had just felt… _right_ , telling Cartman. It came naturally. It had been a comfort, finally being able to get such a weight off his chest. And Cartman had been surprisingly cool about it, when Kyle had thought he was going to rip on him for sure. 

Kyle had been so worried and had felt so lonely, not just about realising he liked boys and he had a crush on his best friend, but also because high school was looming and he instinctively knew they would all be forced apart, and everyone would change. Not only did Cartman not seem to care that he was of a certain persuasion, but his paralleled nervousness for the future had helped Kyle feel better about their predicament. Maybe it’s because Cartman was there that night that they got closer, somehow, and they’d managed to stay friends whereas Stan and Kenny and most of the other boys in their class had scattered away into various cliques.

Even though they still fight all the time, and Cartman often makes Kyle want to tear his hair out, he can’t help but admit he feels somewhat… _fond_ of Cartman, more so than ever before. It’s a foreign feeling in his chest, a swelling feeling, which intensifies when Cartman smiles at him. A genuine smile, as opposed to a sly, I’m-up-to-something smile – rather, it's a smile that Kyle can return.

“Don’t bother with that loser, Kyle. You’re way too good for him.”

Kyle raises his eyebrow, not sure if Cartman’s making fun of him or if he actually just paid him, Kyle Broflovski, the ginger Jersey Jew, a compliment. Cartman has a defiant look on his face. Maybe it hadn’t been his intention to compliment Kyle, just to insult Stan.

“He just loves chasing Testaburger about, like a little dog. It’s pathetic. Might as well make the transformation complete and give him a bone. Ah, but you’d like that, Kyle.”

Kyle should feel stung by that, but he can’t help it; he laughs.

“Shut up, fatass,” he says, way more fondly than he intends. The little bully from South Park, who purposely used to make annoying Kyle his number one goal in life, had somehow become a person who could make Kyle feel better. 

Somehow, he has come to matter. A lot.


	2. Call The Shots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry that it took me three months to update, and I'm overwhelmed by the niceness and the sincere compliments in the comments. I haven't done any kind of creative writing in so long and it's been really hard to kick my ass into gear. I'm far too critical of my writing these days.
> 
> But anyway! Here's a nice, long chapter for you to enjoy; I hope that semi-makes up for the long wait!

The first lesson is World History, followed by Health, Algebra and then German. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, Kyle’s been sorted into higher ability groups for all his subjects since freshman year, and Cartman is in a LOT of the same classes. Four out of seven. Well, Kyle always knew Cartman was smart. But his smarts usually don’t lie within the context of schoolbooks and exams. Kyle suspects the only reason that idiot is in any of the top ability groups at all is because he’s an expert at cheating. Kyle once asked if it was because Cartman wanted to be leave him alone as little as possible. Cartman scoffed unconvincingly, rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t flatter yourself, Jew.”

Kyle has one lesson with Stan… English. Unlike Cartman, he sits right across the classroom from Kyle, and their interactions are usually restricted to a smile and a nod at the most. Even that causes Kyle’s heart to do a do little fucking back flips.

They’re studying the Second World War and the Nazi Regime in World History. When Kyle first heard this at the beginning of the semester, he turned in his seat to glance at Cartman sitting behind him, warily. Cartman grinned back, his eyes dancing and mischievous. “This is going to be so fucking sweet.”

German is always frustrating as fuck because Cartman is practically fluent, and never fails to lord it over Kyle. Kyle can whoop his ass in math and science, but hearing that fast-spoken German in that smug tone of voice makes him grit his teeth. His competitive nature soon won out and since taking the class he studied diligently in order to catch up to his rival, and they spend most of the class exchanging back-and-forth arguments in heated German as the rest of the class looks on, a little estranged. Some of them have been in their class since South Park Elementary, so they’re a little too used to it, but to others, it’s bizarre.

Today, Kyle’s head is still pounding, and he drinks copious amount of water. He slumps over his desk, burying his head in his arms, and groans in response to Cartman’s taunts. Bastard. He’s enjoying this. How can he drink so much without breaking a sweat? Ah, most likely because he’s a fatass.

When the bell rings for lunch, Kyle leans back in his chair, thanking God. All he can think about is taking another dose of painkillers from his locker, when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“What, Cartman?” he sighs, in German, without turning round.

“Arcade and Bennigan’s tonight?”

Kyle can practically hear the grin in Cartman’s voice. Kyle tiredly rubs his forehead, and despite this, wistfully thinks of Mortal Kombat and mozzarella dipping sticks. He then sighs, and gathers up his books, grinning in response.

“You bet.”

He can always recover later.

“I’ll catch up to you, just gonna get something from my locker,” he explains when they part ways at the classroom door. Cartman shrugs and heads on over to the cafeteria. Kyle watches him go for a moment, watches him catching up with Butters at the end of the corridor, watching him roll his eyes and refrain from sarcastic responses when Butters starts talking energetically. Kyle turns and continues toward his locker. He’s amazed those two get along so well, considering how big an asshole Cartman was when they were kids. But if he thinks _that’s_ weird, people probably find it even stranger that _he_ still hangs around Cartman, considering how often they used to try to kill each other.

Kyle turns the corner of the corridor, unhooking his backpack from his shoulder so he can take some books out, and falters in his steps when he sees a very familiar person leaning up against his locker.

Stan looks up and sees him staring. He flashes a winning smile. “Hey, Kyle! Been waiting for you.”

Kyle hates the way his stomach twists up in knots inside of him. Stan looks annoyingly good, in a plain grey V-neck sweater rolled up at the sleeves, his blue knit cap pushed back. He never usually comes up to Kyle in school. After all, he’s Mr Popular now: cool, collected, handsome. Everything Kyle is not.

After blinking stupidly for a second, Kyle gathers his thoughts together and clears his throat. His mouth is suddenly very dry.

“Oh, Stan. What are you doing here?”

“Yeah, surprised to see me?”

“Kinda.”

“Oh. Look, about me going off with Wendy yesterday... I swear I completely forgot we were supposed to be meeting up. Did you wait long?”

“No,” Kyle lies. “Move a second, I gotta get to my locker.”

Stan steps aside and watches as Kyle rummages around, giving him a questioning look when he sees the painkillers. “You not feeling so good?”

“Hangover,” Kyle grunts. Stan whistles in alarm.

“Hangover? You?” he squawks, barking nervous laughter. “I didn’t know you were that kind of guy, Kyle.”

“Yeah, well, people change, Stan,” Kyle mutters, putting a pill on his tongue and gulping down water. He can’t help it, he knows he’s being a dick, but he just doesn’t have the energy to pretend right now. Stan has the good grace to look guilty, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“Hey, I’m sorry, okay. I wasn’t thinking. I just… she’s… Wendy’s just so…” he stops himself, and starts again. “Kyle, you know you’re the most important person to me, right?”

Kyle scoffs, but he can’t help it; he involuntarily feels his heart do those stupid little flips again.

“I mean it, dude. You’re my best friend. I know we don’t hang out that much… heck, I don’t even know you that well anymore…” Stan says a little sadly, hanging his head. Kyle wavers.

“No, no… it’s cool dude, I’m sorry. Really. I just have a bad headache today.”

Stan looks up, and smiles slightly. “Did you go drinking all by yourself?”

“No, um… with Cartman,” Kyle mumbles.

Kyle isn’t looking at Stan, but somehow he can just _sense_ Stan’s eyebrows knitting together.

“Oh, of course. You guys really get along well these days.”

Kyle feels his cheeks heat up. There’s something in Stan’s tone that’s off, though he can’t quite place it. Is he making fun of him?

“Yeah, well… he’s not such a bad guy anymore, you know,” he says feebly. It’s true, but Kyle’s not about to go into details of how Cartman’s been there for him all these years. He’s not sure Stan would really understand. If Kyle thought outsiders found his and Cartman’s friendly relationship weird, then Stan must think it’s the most unnatural arrangement ever.

“Sure. Well, actually, if you’re into drinking these days, then you could stop by Heidi’s tonight. She’s throwing a small get-together, nothing too crazy.”

“Really?” Kyle perks up, pleased. Stan’s actually inviting him to a party? Wow, he must really feel bad about yesterday if he’s going that far to make it up to Kyle.

“Yeah, and she’s so desperate to be popular that she’ll let anyone in, so it’s fine for you to go.”

“…Right,” Kyle mutters, trying not to feel offended.

“So you think you’ll come?”

“Of course,” Kyle starts to say, then remembers, “Ah shit, I already told Cartman I’d go to the arcade tonight.” Stan coughs, looking incredulous.

“The arcade? Seriously? Dude, you see Cartman all the time. We haven’t hung out in like forever!” Stan protests.

Kyle blinks. Did he really just say that?

“Well… I guess I could join you a little later…” Kyle says slowly, formulating a plan in his head. He’s not sure this is right, ditching Cartman after Stan ditched him last night. But it HAS been ages since they last hung out together, and Kyle’s never been invited to a party with him before. And he’s not _really_ ditching him… not if he goes along and then leaves early to meet Stan…

Stan grins. “Cool! So, see you at Heidi’s, eight o’clock?” He doesn’t wait for Kyle to reply; he just claps him on the back, making Kyle stumble forward a little. Stan’s so strong these days. Kyle would find it arousing, but Stan’s already walking off, catching up with Token and Craig.

“Wait…” Kyle says half-heartedly, then sighs. It’s fine. Stan lives in a different world now. Of course he doesn’t want to be associated with Kyle. Small, skinny Kyle, who is pasty-skinned, with a sore red zit on his chin that he’s sure Stan noticed, his Jewish nose, and his hair an alarming fire-engine curly mess. Kyle feels ridiculously hideous, especially when basking in the glow of Stan’s handsomeness.

Kyle shuffles in the direction of the cafeteria, where he’ll sit with Cartman and the guys. Cartman, for all the jokes he makes about Jews and gingers, is unable to make Kyle feel inferior. Kyle usually snaps back with some lame retort: fatass, retard, etc. Besides, Cartman is just as uncool as he is. He makes for good company that way.

Kyle starts to feel guilty, then shakes his head. Stan’s right, he and Cartman hang out all the time. He’s not going to get upset if Kyle ditches him for one night, surely.

Kyle’s about to join the lunch line, wondering if all the tacos will have gone by the time he gets to the front, when he spots Cartman waving him over to a table, where he’s sitting with Butters, Jason and Jimmy. He’s even saved him a lunch: spicy chilli-beef red onion tacos. Kyle grins, even when he gets closer and sees Cartman’s taken a bite out of one of them.

“Your fault for taking so long,” is Cartman’s way of greeting him. “What were you doing out there? Breaking the record for world’s biggest crap?”

“Ha,” Kyle replies, settling down next to him and immediately cramming his mouth full of tacos, moaning a little at the taste. “Mmm. So good. Didn’t have any breakfast.”

“I know that, darling, after all, we were together till morning,” Cartman says sultrily, hamming it up with a wink. Kyle rolls his eyes, not surprised when Butters starts choking on his chicken sandwich.

“You coming to the arcade tonight?” Jason asks lazily.

“Well… yeah…” Kyle starts to say, but Cartman interrupts him.

“Of course he’s going. Kyle still hasn’t forgotten how I handed his ass to him at Street Fighter last week. He cried like a little bitch.”

“That is NOT what happened! It was totally YOU who started sulking and quit the game because you were getting destroyed!”

“Oh Kyle, always trying to sway the public opinion,” Cartman sighs dramatically. “This is why no-one can trust a sneaky Jew.”

“YOU’RE the one who can’t be trusted, fatass.”

“Oi! Butters trusts me, don’t you Butters?”

“What?” Butters looks up, more alert. “Oh… yeah... sure I do, Eric.”

“See? Butters trusts me.”

“Oh please, Butters would trust a child molester if they had a good enough sob story.”

“D-didn’t that actually h-happen?” Jimmy points out.

“He had a really bad upbringing! And Obama made him do it!” Butters protests.

Kyle doesn’t remember until halfway through Tech. Ed. that he was supposed to tell Cartman he’d be leaving early.

Should he lie, or tell him about Stan? He knows he’d be able to see through a lame excuse, but Kyle just _knows_ what kind of look Cartman will give him if he tell him he’s ditching him to go to a party with the same guy who ditched him yesterday. Kyle knows he’s being pathetic, falling all over himself for someone who most days acts like he doesn’t even know him. But he wants Stan to acknowledge him, to talk to him, and this is too good an opportunity to pass up.

Still, he can’t help the swirling pit of uneasiness in his stomach that continues after they’ve all gotten on the bus from South Park High School.

“What’s up, Jew? Worried about how I’m going to destroy you?”

Kyle’s gaze is startled away from staring aimlessly out the window, and he immediately puts on an annoyed face for Cartman’s benefit.

“You wish.”

“I don’t wish, Kyle, I know,” Cartman says lazily, leaning back in his seat and stretching dramatically. His hooded sweatshirt rides up as he does so, and Kyle feigns disgust.

“Dude,” he groans. Cartman still packs more than a few extra pounds.

“What? Jealous of my ripped bod, you scrawny Jew?” Cartman goads, but Kyle notices him pulling discreetly on the hem of his sweatshirt afterwards. Because that’s how it’s always been, Cartman being a dickhole and Kyle being a bastard right back, then at some point Cartman slips up and unintentionally reminds Kyle that he’s human too, with feelings and insecurities. A pretty poor excuse for a human and with pretty fucked-up feelings, but even so.

“Yeah, we can’t all be packing raw muscle like you,” Kyle says sarcastically, but Cartman laps it up.

“That’s not all I’m packing, Jew,” he winks, and Kyle groans again, laughing this time.

“I know, Cartman. Thirteen point seven inches, wasn’t it?”

“Naturally.”

“You are so full of crap!”

They bicker all the way to the arcade, where Cartman immediately runs off towards Street Fighter, flipping Kyle off as he does so.

“You’re gonna take it, Kyle!”

The arcade, just like everywhere else in South Park during some holiday season, is kitted out in tacky Halloween decorations. Fake bats hang from the ceiling, foil banners advertise upcoming Halloween bargain deals, and plastic Day-Glo pumpkins are scattered all over the less-than-sanitary dusty floor.

Jason, Jimmy and Butters spend the next few hours jumping from game to game, from racing cars to shooting demos, while Kyle forgets time and spends the rest of the evening yelling at Cartman, either to shut him up or to whoop in triumph. Cartman makes just as much noise.

“Awwww, dude! How did you do that sweet kick?” he calls over from his machine.

“Double-left, up then down,” Kyle calls back.

“Killer.”

It’s seven o’clock when they all finally exit the building. Kyle shivers; it’s already dark out, frost is clinging to the sidewalk and to the lampposts, and he can see the ghost of his breath every time he exhales. It’s coming up to the end of October, and usually by mid-November there’s a thick coat of snow on the ground. And, he’s fucking hungry. He would kill for some onion rings and nachos right now. Kyle’s stomach growls, thinking of hot food, and Cartman notices this immediately, smirking.

“Welp, the Jew’s stomach has spoken. Bennigan’s?”

“Heck yeah!” Butters says enthusiastically, and starts bounding off in that direction. Jason looks dejectedly through his wallet, Jimmy offers to cover him some fries, and they start walking off, too. Cartman looks back at Kyle.

“You heard them. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He starts in that direction as well, tugging on Kyle’s coat sleeve.

“Wait,” Kyle says, wincing, because he guesses it has to be now. He was having so much fun, caught up in heated arguments and competition like always, that he kept delaying the inevitable, or rather, he kept forgetting. But it’s no big deal, right? He needs to stop being an oversensitive baby and just tell Cartman sorry, not tonight.

Cartman pauses, and looks back at him, confused.

“What the fuck are we waiting for? I’m fucking starving, and so are you.”

Kyle musters up the courage, taking a deeper breath than necessary.

“Er… Cartman, I’m going to have to skip Bennigan’s tonight. Sorry.”

Cartman says nothing for a moment, taken aback, and when he opens his mouth to speak, he’s interrupted by Jimmy yelling back at them, “Hey E-Eric, are you guys c-coming or what?”

“Yeah, give us a damn minute, would ya?” he yells back, but without his usual vigour. He looks back at Kyle, who winces again, because he knows he’s going to have to give an explanation now. Cartman looks annoyed, as predicted, but also kind of serious. “What’s the deal, Jew? You said you were totally up for it earlier. Oh, let me guess, your mom’s being a bitch again because you didn’t call home last night. Well, she can suck a big fat one; you don’t have to do everything she says –”

“It’s not that, Cartman. And don’t call my mom a bitch,” Kyle sighs. “No, I’m really sorry, but… something came up.”

“What? It’s gotta be something pretty big if you’re willing to miss 20% off on all appetizers.”

“Uhh. Well.” Kyle steels himself for impact. “Stan came up to me at school today.”

Cartman doesn’t say anything, so Kyle continues, babbling a little. “He said he was sorry for… for not hanging out in a while. And… that there’s a party on tonight. He asked if I wanted to go, and I said I already agreed to meet up with you, but…”

“Ah, so you’re ditching me – us – to go to a party with the hippie. I see how it is, Jew.”

“That’s not how it is!” Kyle snaps, flushing, but how is it, then? “We haven’t hung out together in weeks.”

Cartman steps into his space, so that Kyle has to crane his neck a little in order to meet his eyes, which are locked onto Kyle’s own sharp green ones.

“And whose fault is that?” Cartman points out. “I can’t believe you’re really dropping everything to please that asshole, when he doesn’t give a crap about you. You could trip and break your neck in the school corridor and he wouldn’t stop to call an ambulance. He’d stay back, keep his distance and save face for his fake friends.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Kyle says quietly, hurt. “He came up to me today, didn’t he? Come on, dude, you and me, we’re always together. In class, at lunch, hell I even spent the night passed out in your basement. I know I’m being an idiot, I know it’s his fault that we don’t hang out, but… please, can’t you just let me have this?” He blushes as he prepares for his next statement. “…You know how I feel about him.”

The cold breeze whistles in his ears, amplifying the silence that has settled over them both. Kyle is red to the tips of his ears, both from the cold, and from embarrassment, as he stares Cartman down, whose expression is inscrutable, waiting for his response.

Cartman sighs, breaking his gaze.

“Fine, whatever. It’s cool, Jew. You have a life outside of me. I can cope without you for one night. Jesus, you really think I’m that dependent on you?” He barks out a laugh.

Kyle opens his mouth, and closes it again. Suddenly he’s lost for words.

“I mean, I was gonna treat you to mozzarella sticks – don’t misunderstand, only ‘cause you cried like a bitch again today when I pulverized you like I said I would – but I guess now I’ll have to treat Butters instead.”

“…Cartman…” Kyle starts, but he’s dismissed by a wave of Cartman’s hand.

“I get it, Kyle. Now get going before I have to kick your ass and make you cry again.”

“Ugh, you are so full of shit,” Kyle moans, but he does himself a favour and doesn’t drag the conversation out any longer, as it’s getting late and Cartman clearly doesn’t care, or at least makes out like he doesn’t.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Kyle calls back over his shoulder, as they both start walking off in their respective opposite directions.

Cartman doesn’t reply, just gives a little sarcastic salute with his back towards him, and Kyle knows that for now, things are still okay.

When did he start to care about Cartman’s feelings? He wonders this to himself as he fumbles for the keys to his front door, fingers numb and trembling like he has arthritis. It is way too cold outside, even for October.

As soon as he gets the door open, he’s assaulted by a wall of warmth that smells like rugelach pastry and baking. Kyle wants to stop and wrap himself up in that warm cosy smell, but he can’t, he only has half an hour to get ready before he has to leave again.

“Kyle! Welcome home, bubbeh!” his mother calls from the kitchen. Without even being in the same room, she assaults Kyle’s ears with dialogue. “I was so worried when you didn’t tell me where you were going last night, young man! Keep this up and I may have to ground you. You have to learn to let me know where you are and whether you’ll be home for dinner. How was school? Come in here and talk to me, for a minute. I need to tell you all about what I heard from Linda Stotch –”

“Sorry, Mom, not now,” Kyle winces, glad for his excuse to leave. He shucks off his school bag and coat, making his way to the kitchen so he can quickly heat up a ready meal to devour before heading out. “Stan asked if I could hang out tonight.” He takes a chicken Cup Noodle out the cupboard and switches on the kettle, finally turning round to face his mother. “I have to leave again in a few minutes.”

Kyle isn’t the only one capable of holding conversation whilst multi-tasking; Sheila still has her back to him, slicing vegetables and wearing an apron. She pauses upon hearing Stan’s name, though.

“Weren’t you at his house yesterday?”

“No, Mom, I told you, I was with Cartman,” Kyle sighs, looking at his feet as he does so. He expects Sheila’s predictable snort of disapproval.

“Kyle, I don’t think Eric has the best influence of you. I’d much rather you hung around with Stanley like you used to. He’s such a nice boy.”

Kyle wonders if she’d say the same if she knew the kind of thoughts Kyle’s had about Stan since freshman year high school. More likely she’d endure cardiac arrest. She has no idea Kyle is gay; she has been trying to set him up with girls since his bar mitzvah, always nagging him about girls at school and constantly interrogating him about if he’s going to get a girlfriend any time soon.

“Yeah, well, I’m seeing him tonight.”

“What are you boys getting up to?”

“Homework, probably,” Kyle replies without missing a beat. The kettle finishes boiling, and he pours them over the Noodles before closing the lid and making his way to the door.

“Well, you boys have fun. What time will you be back tonight, Kyle?”

“Not too late, hopefully,” Kyle mutters vaguely, grabbing his coat and his bag.

“I should hope not, Kyle! It’s a school night, after all! I really don’t approve of you always going out like this…” she calls, the rest of her voice inaudible as Kyle dashes up the stairs to his room, shovelling noodles in his mouth and burning his tongue in the process.

He can hear Ike tapping away on his computer in the next room. The kid’s been moody and withdrawn for the last few months, confined to his bedroom and working on projects and reports. Most likely another existential bout of depression or despair, akin to Stan back when they were kids. Ike is a better kid now than Kyle ever was, at school work and at recognising bullshit, but he barely speaks anymore and Kyle is worried about him.

Not too worried to distract him from getting ready for the party, though.

He tries desperately to make himself look more presentable, tearing clothes out of his closet and tossing them all in a pile on his bed until he eventually settles on what he considers flattering and doesn’t make him look like a freak: navy flannel shirt, dark grey jacket, black jeans, and scuffed khaki-coloured Vans. He fiddles with the end of his shirt, not sure whether to tuck it in or leave it hanging. In the end he half-tucks it in, casually, and buttons it all the way up to the throat, deciding it gives the illusion of his shoulders looking broader. He notices an ink stain on the inside of his jacket sleeve, and rolls them down so that the sleeves come over his thumbs… the sleeves have always been a little too long in the arm.

Kyle scrutinizes himself in the mirror, depressed at his own appearance. He can’t do anything about the zit on his chin and resists the urge to pick it, knowing he’ll regret it later. He wonders if he should do something with his hair, trying to smooth it down, but taming his wild corkscrew curls into submission requires more time than is available to him, so he crams his curls into his hat and shoves it down, hard. He knows he’s not the best-looking guy there is, and has learned to deal with it, but it’s at times like this when he feels most vulnerable and just wants to curl up into a little ball in a hole somewhere, under a rock, so that nobody can lay eyes on him again.

The walk to Heidi’s is punctuated by Kyle’s trudging footsteps as they crunch upon the frosty autumn leaves. Cold and miserable, Kyle turns up his hood and stuffs his hands in his pockets, hunched against the wind. Is he really in the mood to do this? Stan’s never invited him to a party before; he’s not sure if he’s really going to enjoy what greets him behind that door. He sees Heidi’s house at the end of the street; he hears the dulled throb of bass to some mediocre pop song.

 _I wonder what the guys are doing now_ , he thinks, pitifully. He rings the doorbell, bracing himself.

It’s Heidi who answers, of course. She’s tried to do something interesting with her limp brown hair – it’s less shapeless than usual. Kyle cringes inwardly at her “bold” choice of clothing – a neon yellow two-piece dress, and bright pink high heels with matching hoop earrings. She looks like she stepped straight out of an early 2000’s pop group, and she’s swaying a little, obviously tipsy already. It takes her a moment to recognise Kyle, and when she does, her eyebrows twist in confusion.

“Oh, hey Kyle. Long time no see. Um, can I help you?”

“Yeah, erm,” Kyle says intelligently. “I’m just… yeah, I’m sorry for turning up out of the blue, but Stan invited me tonight… Is that okay?”

“Huh, really?” Heidi responds, raising both her eyebrows. Kyle winces, shuffling from one foot to the other. He regrets coming more than ever, and isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or filled with dread when Heidi twists her head over her shoulder, yelling, “Oi! Stan!”

Kyle’s stomach immediately twists up in knots and mentally forces himself to relax when he’s suddenly faced with Stan, leaning against the doorframe, one hand half in his front jeans pocket, a can of beer resting in the other. He’s done something with his hair; his eyes somehow look bluer.

“Hey, you made it,” he smirks and lifts the can of beer to his lips, his eyes never leaving Kyle’s.

“Hi.” Kyle’s throat is suddenly as dry as the sandy Sahara.

“Hey Heidi, I invited Kyle to hang out tonight. Is that cool with you?” Stan flashes a crooked smile. He’s a dangerous man, Kyle decides. Stan knows full well that smile is a damn weapon against women. Kyle is actually able to observe Heidi wavering; her whole body relaxes.

“Of course! All your friends are welcome, Stan,” she smiles, opening the door for Kyle without looking at him. She staggers back into the house, and Kyle is left alone with Stan, who turns to him and grins.

“Come on in.”

He leads Kyle towards the kitchen, away from the speakers in the living room, where most people are piled onto the couches, swigging beer, already loosened up and laughing a little too loudly, their eyes unfocused. It’s almost stiflingly warm inside, from the central heating and extra combined body heat. Kyle can’t stop himself from staring at Stan’s back, drinking him in. He’s substituted his v-neck sweater and blue knit cap for a white Hollister t-shirt and a grey beanie. Usually Kyle would laugh with Cartman over such a conformist yet self-proclaimed “hipster” style, but all he can think about right now is how hot Stan looks, laid-back and stylish without even trying.

Stan stumbles into the kitchen counter when he doesn’t stop in time, mumbling, “Ah, sorry”, and Kyle suddenly realizes Stan isn’t that much more sober than anyone else in the house. Warily, he eyes the pile of empty beer cans littered across the counter, matching the brand Stan currently has clutched in his fist.

Stan catches him staring, and smiles. “Yeah, guilty as charged.” That smile might be fuelled by alcohol, but it’s still genuine, and Kyle finds himself smiling back. “How are you, dude?”

“I’m… good,” Kyle decides. “Er, you?”

“Yeah, not so bad,” Stan shrugs. He takes another sip of beer.

A few seconds pass and a strained silence settles between them both. Kyle fiddles with the inside of his jacket sleeves, unsure what to do with his hands.

“So, um, thanks for inviting me, man,” he says conversationally, feeling like an idiot, but not knowing what else to say.

“Huh? Sure, no problem,” Stan says easily, downing the rest of his beer and dragging his arm across his wet lips. Kyle tries not to stare. “It’s been a while, right? God, I’m so sorry, I’ve just been so busy with practice and stuff. You get me?”

“Yeah, I get you,” Kyle sighs, leaning his hand on the counter and glancing out of the window, streaked in condensation. He doesn’t believe him, of course. Kyle’s found himself staring out the window a lot during class, gazing hopelessly toward the football field. Stan hasn’t been THAT busy, but he knows how it is, and he’s grateful Stan even bothers to hang out with him anymore.

“Here, let me get you a drink,” Stan offers, tossing his empty can away and reaching for a red Solo cup.

“I probably shouldn’t…” Kyle mutters half-heartedly, but Stan is already fixing him a clumsy rum and Coke. His hand accidentally brushes Kyle’s when he sets down the glass bottle. Stan doesn’t seem to notice, but Kyle immediately feels goose bumps erupt where Stan touched him, and a chill prickles his spine. Stan has lovely hands, he notices for the hundredth time: strong-looking, a little weathered, fingertips a little rough, knuckles a little bony. What he wouldn’t give for them to touch him more…

Kyle shakes his head, willing those pathetically needy thoughts away, but it’s hard when Stan’s so close he can smell his musky cologne, sweeter and more subtle than the cheap Axe the other guys on the football team douse themselves in. Do the chicks dig that kind of thing?

Stan passes him his drink, which smells a little strong, but then, what does Kyle know. Stan raises his own cup, eyes mischievous. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Kyle echoes, and decides on the spur of the moment to down it in one. He’s not sure if he’s trying to impress Stan, or if he’s just suddenly feeling a little crazy, or if sobriety is making the atmosphere too tense between them and he wants to feel normal again. The liquid swills down his throat, coating his insides with warmth, burning him, and he just barely supresses a choke of surprise.

“Whoa, dude,” Stan laughs. He knocks back the rest of his drink and sets the empty cup down a little too hard on the kitchen counter. “Getting wasted again so soon?”

“Why the fuck not,” Kyle shrugs, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “I wanna get wasted with my bro, you know?” He cringes when he hears himself, but Stan laps it up, smiling back in a way that’s so excited and lit up that it makes Kyle’s heart leap.

“Fuck, Kyle, yeah,” he agrees, reaching for the vodka this time. “Last one to down five straight shots has to do Gangnam Style in front of everyone.”

“Wow, that’s so 2012.”

“Saying ‘that’s so 2000-anything’ is so 2009.”

“You’re such a hipster, you know that?”

“You’re just scared you’re gonna lose.”

“You’re on.”

Kyle does lose, unable to cope with the taste, but he finds himself hardly caring that he has to do the forfeit. He even agrees to do the Macarena and wiggles his hips exaggeratedly when he has to dance in front of everybody, basking in their laughter and wolf whistles. He’s not concerned whether they’re laughing at him or with him, because Stan’s laughing so hard he’s crying, and Kyle is so happy his heart could burst.

“Dude, I love drunk Kyle,” he wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes when they return to the kitchen. “He’s fun.”

“I’m always fun,” Kyle insists, pushing at Stan playfully, almost missing him when he swerves a little too far to the right. Stan’s giggling again, but softly, and Kyle giggles too, just because. The events of the past twenty, thirty minutes have all blurred into one, and the realization that he’s drunk suddenly hits him hard. Due to the remainder of alcohol still in his system from the night before, he soaked up the new alcohol like a sponge. He doesn’t feel sick, though he does feel overly warm and can’t walk in a straight line.

It takes him a second to realize Stan is talking to him again.

“You okay?” Stan asks, and Kyle blinks.

“Y-yeah,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I got a little crazy there.”

“I’ll say,” Stan snorts, staggering over to the counter to fix himself yet another drink, and as an afterthought pours one for Kyle too, who takes it without objection. “That thing you did with your ass was hysterical. Looked SUPER gay.”

“Really?” Kyle blurts out before he can stop himself, and Stan gives him an odd look. “Oh, yeah, just did it for the laughs, bro,” Kyle saves himself quickly, squirming at how unconvincing he sounds and wishes he could take it back, but Stan seems to swallow it.

“Ha, yeah,” he laughs. “Do you go to a lot of parties, Kyle?”

“All the time,” Kyle rolls his eyes, because Stan already knows this isn’t true. “They just can’t get enough of me and my sweet ass.”

“Yeah, I bet the ladies love it,” Stan snorts. Kyle can’t think of a reply to that and avoids doing so by downing his drink again.

“Gross! What is this?”

“Dude, quit downing it before knowing if you can handle it. I don’t have a fucking clue, by the way, just some fancy liqueur I saw lying around.”

“Sick,” Kyle moans, wiping his mouth of the sickly sweet taste. Stan exhales, not quite a laugh, more of a huff, and sets down his cup so he can look Kyle in the eye. He’s wobbling a little bit and steadies himself, but he suddenly looks serious.

“I’ve missed you so much, dude,” he whispers.

Kyle’s throat tightens, and he’s lost for words. Stan’s still looking at him, and Kyle wonders if he’s expected to say something.

“Well… I miss you too,” he begins to say, but Stan speaks over him.

“Seriously, like… we never hang out anymore. What’s up with that? That’s so fucked up.” Stan looks lost, his eyes unfocused, like he’s trying to remember what led them both to this point.

“Dude, are you okay…?” Kyle says uncertainly, wondering if Stan’s just really wasted, though it doesn’t seem that way.

Stan looks like he’s thinking about what to say, but at that moment they’re interrupted by Bebe stumbling into the kitchen, adorning a crazy smile and looking stunning in a short red dress that shows off her curves. Her lipstick is a little smudged.

“Hey, Stan, move – I want some of that beer,” she slurs. “Oh hey, Kyle! Having a good time?”

“Sure,” Kyle replies, watching her grasp around the counter top to find a beer bottle opener. Her boob is nudging a little too close to Stan’s side for Kyle’s liking, though Stan doesn’t seem to notice. He still appears to be deep in thought. Kyle wishes they were somewhere more private.

Once Bebe’s gone back to the living room, Stan lets out this long sigh.

“Do you ever find yourself wishing things could go back to the way they were?”

Kyle remembers having a similar conversation when they were kids.

“Sure, dude,” he says. “But… you can’t change the past, so sometimes you just have to make a left turn… remember?”

“I know, but… God, I barely see you anymore! I mean, seriously, you hang out with _Cartman_ more than you hang out with me! Don’t you find that weird? You guys are supposed to hate each other, and yet you’d rather go hang out with him at the shitty arcade and eat potato skins together than hang out with me...”

“Well, if you didn’t blow me off and actually talked to me in school once in a while…” Kyle starts, then stops, regretting it immediately.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stan demands, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing,” Kyle says miserably. “Nothing, dude.”

Stan stops then, and looks a little sad, himself.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m a shitty friend. I shouldn’t expect you to wait around on me all the time.”

Kyle doesn’t trust himself to speak. Right now, he feels like he’s holding back a dam of outbursts along the lines of, “Then don’t fucking do it.”

After a few seconds of staring at the floor, Stan shifts closer, and Kyle starts to look up, when he feels a firm hand on his wrist.

Kyle fears his heart might stop if he does so, but he looks all the way up, into Stan’s face, feeling the heat creep up the back of his neck.

Stan’s looking at him sincerely, his eyes a little bright, and Kyle just knows he’s blushing, but he looks back, unwaveringly. He watches Stan’s mouth open, close, then the bob in his throat as he swallows, seemingly at a loss for words. Kyle fights the urge to lick his lips.

The moment’s broken when they hear a noise outside the kitchen, Bebe laughing loudly as she guides someone towards the kitchen, and they both look towards the doorway to see what’s up. Kyle senses Stan’s hand slacken on his wrist, and his heart sinks when he sees Bebe lean through the doorframe; she has Wendy in tow.

Kyle has always tried not to resent Wendy; he respects her. But it’s so hard, when even Kyle has to admit she looks utterly perfect tonight. Her long black hair is sleek and a little wavy under her purple knit hat, her cheeks and nose a little pink from the cold, her eyes bright and her teeth like little pearls when she smiles.

“Hey, guys. I just finished at work so I thought I’d drop by,” she says. Her eyes pass over Stan, who she smiles at for a moment, before her gaze lands on Kyle. “Hey! Kyle! How’ve you been? You look great!”

“Huh? Oh, thanks. And um, I’m good. You?”

“I’m good too,” Wendy smiles back warmly, with not even a trace of malice, and Kyle feels his heart pang. He can sense Stan fidgeting beside him. He doesn’t even need to look at him to know his gaze is locked on Wendy. Wendy looks back at him again, for longer this time, something secret passing between their gaze like Kyle imagined in his dream. Suddenly Kyle would rather be anywhere but here.

“I’ll be in the other room,” he mutters, though he other two don’t seem to hear him. Whatever. He grabs the bottle of vodka on his way out.

The living room is too crowded. More people turned up while he was in the kitchen with Stan. People are dancing, piling up over the couches, and the room is too hot and noisy. Kyle just wants to sneak into a quiet corner somewhere and drink, like the miserable bastard he is.

He quietly slips upstairs, and tries the bathroom first. It’s occupied. Shit. Kyle apprehensively approaches one of the bedrooms, praying this isn’t the kind of party where he’ll stumble across a couple – or God knows how many people – in a compromising position. Both bedroom doors are also locked. Either other people got to them first, or Heidi must have had the same idea as Kyle and took precautions so no-one could sully her bedsheets. The only option left is the closet. The irony does not escape him.

Kyle tries the door handle, and to his relief, it swings open. It’s small, dark, filled with old coats and smells like dust, but it’s perfect. He spots a light switch near the floor and decides it would be better if he didn’t drink in the dark. The door shuts, and Kyle settles down, unscrewing the lid off the vodka. He has no idea how long he’ll stay here. Maybe he should have just left? But he doesn’t want to upset Stan again. Even if Stan forgot all about him as soon as Wendy walked through the door. Even if he just walks out now with Wendy on his arm.

Kyle interrupts the bitter thoughts with a swig of vodka. It’s vile and burns his lips, but it’s efficient at distracting him. Alcohol: the cause and solution to all life’s problems.

Five minutes of scrolling through old texts on his cellphone later, the closet door bursts open, and Kyle jumps like a startled rabbit, involuntarily shouting in surprise.

“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize this was being used… shit…”

Kyle looks up and drinks in the sight of a tall, lanky blond boy wearing a flannel shirt. He looks overly nervous, and is a little too skinny for Kyle’s taste, but he has nice brown eyes, and his hair is light and floppy in a way that makes Kyle want to run his hands through it. He’s clutching a bottle of Coor’s Light.

“That’s okay. I’m guessing you had the same idea as me?” Kyle holds up his bottle of vodka, smirking. The boy smiles back, sweetly, and Kyle stares. He’s not bad-looking, this kid. Kind of cute, actually.

“Yeah, uh, I guess I did. Shit. I don’t really do well at parties. Uh, so, this might sound kind of weird, but…”

“You’re welcome to join me,” Kyle speaks over him, patting the space next to him invitingly. “It can be pretty boring, drinking alone.”

The boy looks grateful, smiling again, and crouches down so he can scoot next to Kyle, clumsily nudging the door shut with his foot. Suddenly it’s a little more claustrophobic in the closet, but the boy’s shoulder is nudged next to Kyle’s in a way that’s comforting, and he’s grateful for the contact.

“I’m Kyle, by the way,” Kyle says, offering his hand. He’s not sure where this new confidence came from, but the alcohol definitely helps.

“Thomas,” the boys replies, taking Kyle’s hand and shaking it. “Wait, Kyle? Shit, I met a guy called Kyle from South Park when I was a kid. Were you the guy who came to our Tourette’s Syndrome group therapy session?”

It takes a while for the cogs to turn in Kyle’s alcohol-riddled brain, but eventually a light switches. “Wait, you’re THAT Thomas? Wow, I can’t believe you remember me! We must have been what, eight, nine years old?”

“Sure I remember! That was a pretty weird time. Haha, shit, what happened to that fat kid who tried to get on Chris Hansen’s show? By pretending he had Tourette’s? Do you still hear from him?”

“What, Cartman? Oh… yeah… he’s still around…” Kyle says distractedly, taken off guard when he remembers him. He feels a guilty pang, feeling worse than ever for bailing on him to go to a party with Stan, though he also guiltily wonders if he only feels that way because Stan’s fucked off.

“He still an asshole?” Thomas jokes, smirking, taking a swig of beer.

“You’d be surprised. High school really mellowed him out.” He makes a mental note to pay him back somehow, maybe with a bag of doughnuts, or pay for all the games at the arcade next time. “Speaking of, where do you go to high school? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”

“Oh shit, no, I live in Middle Park.”

“Then… why are you here?”

“Oh, I know Heidi. She comes to Middle Park High School for orchestra practice. I go there too.”

“Wow, no kidding? What instrument do you play?”

“Flute.”

“That’s cool,” Kyle says, trying to wave away innuendos threatening to swim to front of his mind. “I kick ass at Guitar Hero, but I’m pretty lame when it comes to real instruments, haha.”

“Shit, but, I know you’re a really smart guy. I bet you’re really good at science and computers and shit like that.”

“Yeah, maybe a little,” Kyle says, feeling heat creep to his cheeks at the compliment. “So, uh, this might be a little personal, but how’s your Tourette’s? You’re not swearing as much.”

“Oh shit, yeah. Well I’ve been going to therapy since I was a kid, of course, and so it’s kind of helped with the nervous tic. It’s really bad when I’m nervous or stressed, so I had to try to learn to be calmer I think it helped.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

They catch up companionably for a while, Kyle has no idea how long. It’s really easy to talk to Thomas. He doesn’t seem nervous at all, and is really easy to talk to. They both start joking about as if they’d known each other forever, and take turns swigging from the vodka bottle, making bolder and more daring statements as they go along, until they’re both in peels of laughter and Kyle is clutching Thomas’s arm in hysterics. He’s really warm, and the closet is really warm, and Stan and the party seem so far away right now.

Thomas just said something funny, really funny, and Kyle knows he’s giggling way harder than is appropriate, but he’s too drunk to care.

Suddenly, Thomas accidentally leans his head on Kyle’s shoulder, or maybe it’s the other way around, but Kyle looks up and finds Thomas’s face really close to his, close enough that he can feel his warm, vodka-scented breath tickle his cheek. They both go quiet, and all of a sudden Kyle’s mind has gone blank, when his mouth was running on automatic before, and what even the hell is happening? But a flush is spreading right up to the tips of his ears, and Kyle wants to die, knowing he’s probably gone bright pink, cursing his redheaded genes not for the first time in his life.

“S-sorry,” Kyle murmers, but he doesn’t move away, and stays within their little shared bubble. Thomas doesn’t move either; his gaze nervously flickers to Kyle’s lips and then back to his eyes, which Kyle doesn’t miss, and his blush only deepens.

Thomas has really nice eyes.

“Shit,” he whispers, and Kyle has no idea who initiates what happens next, but in the next few seconds he registers a warm mouth pressed up against his, the taste of vodka and beer, and their lips moving together clumsily, tentatively.

It’s his first kiss, with another guy, anyway. He’s not sure how he got to this point. He still can’t quite believe this is actually happening. But he feels Thomas’s hand on his waist, which tightens when Kyle gives a little gasp of surprise. It’s not very intense, just dry mouths rubbing up against each other, but it’s kind of comforting, and Kyle doesn’t want it to stop. It feels pretty good, being pressed up against another guy, being able to smell his aftershave and the detergent from his freshly ironed shirt, and feel the cool weight of a wristwatch pressed against his side. It’s very innocent, mouths only pressed together and nothing more, but it’s still far nicer than any kiss he’s ever shared with a girl, that’s for sure.

Thomas breaks away after a few moments, searching his eyes, and Kyle grants him permission by impatiently bringing their mouths back together, though it doesn’t get any more intense than that, even if Thomas sighs a little in content, which Kyle mutually returns. He’s aware that they should probably stop, as they’re at a party, and someone could burst in at any minute –

Kyle’s train of thought halts when Thomas abruptly breaks away and looks towards the door, his voice cracking when he swears. Kyle follows his gaze, and he feels like swearing too when he realizes the door is open, and there is a pair of legs in his frame of vision. He didn’t hear the door open. The blood is still roaring in his ears, from alcohol and from hormones.

Kyle doesn’t want to meet the eyes of whoever has just caught him kissing another guy, because it will mean acknowledging that his secret is out and that everyone in South Park High School will probably know this time tomorrow. The news might even reach his parents, oh God...

But he has to look up, if only to save face by playing it off as not a big deal. Or he would, but his blood runs cold when he suddenly realizes that he recognises those jeans. He recognizes those canvas shoes. More than anything, he recognizes that sweet musky scent; he would know it anywhere.

He snaps his head up, panic and humiliation rooting him to the spot, only to meet Stan staring down at him, lips parted, eyes wide with surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure I like how this chapter turned out. It's really hard to write the characters convincingly.
> 
> I'm currently in Tokyo for Christmas. Hope you had a nice Christmas, and have a Happy New Year!

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter will come hopefully soon. This is only my second fanfiction, so comments/criticism would be greatly appreciated.


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